Jin Sutra #9

‘The Atman alone is the doer of pleasure and pain. And the Atman alone is the enjoyer, the sufferer, the undoer. Established in right tendency the Atman is its own friend; established in wrong tendency the Atman is its own enemy.’
The whole universe of Mahavira’s contemplation is the Atman. The entire sky in which Mahavira flies is the Atman. Other than the Atman, there is nothing. In Mahavira’s vision nothing whatsoever has any place outside the Atman. The world has no value, nor does God have any value—nothing “other” has any value. If there is value, it is of the Self.
If I say it straight—and do not be mistaken—never was there a man more “self-interested” than Mahavira. But do not misunderstand.
“Self-interest” means: one’s own meaning, one’s own purpose. “Self-interest” means: one’s own good, one’s own welfare, one’s own benediction. Those who truly accomplish the Self-interest, for them the good of others happens of its own accord. Because whoever acts in his own true interest cannot do anything that harms the other. One who has begun to recognize his own good gradually discovers: what is really good for me is also good for the other; and what is not good for me cannot be good for the other either. Conversely, what is not good for the other cannot be good for me; and what is truly good for the other is the only thing that can be truly good for me. For the other too is an Atman just like me. There is not a fraction of difference between the intrinsic nature of me and the other. So that which delights me, delights the other; and that which delights the other, delights me. I and the other are not two different dimensions—we are two forms of one consciousness; two configurations of one nature.
But Mahavira’s teaching is of the supreme Self-interest. He does not talk of “other-interest” at all. How could he? He says: give up even the very notion of the “other.” If you keep the notion of the “other” even for the sake of the other’s good, you will remain entangled with the other. The “other” is the world. To keep your attention on the other is the world. To free your attention from the other is Samadhi. To return to oneself is to come home. To absorb one’s attention in one’s own being—beyond oneself nothing remains that has any value.
Therefore Mahavira did not accept a God apart. For to accept a separate God is to make the “other” important again. If you drop things and shops, the temple will become important. If you drop wealth, “religion” will become important. If you relinquish status, then the status of God, the supreme status, a longing for it will be born. But in every way, the “other” remains important. And Mahavira’s profound analysis is: as long as the other is, the world is.
When you are alone—so alone that you do not even know loneliness; if you still feel loneliness, the other is yet present. Loneliness is felt only when the other is remembered, when the desire for the other arises. When you sense the lack of the other, you have known loneliness. But if the other is utterly gone and you do not even remember the other, then how will you know loneliness? Loneliness then becomes supreme, perfect. Mahavira called that ‘Kaivalya’—the absolute aloneness.
So alone that even aloneness is not known. To know even that, a slight presence of the other is needed—a shadow, a memory. If you wish to build the wall of your home, you need a neighbor; without a neighbor, where will you draw a boundary line? Even if the neighbor cannot trespass on your land, without the neighbor what land will you call yours? So, as long as aloneness is known, aloneness is not pure—the other is present; standing somewhere in a dark corner; far perhaps, but present. There will be a whisper, a shadow; an echo.
Understand this. Only then can you be truly Selfed, when not even the shadow of the other is needed for your definition. You are Atman only when you are free of the other.
If even for the experience of your Atman you must take the support of the other, then even that experience becomes dependent, becomes worldly.
Therefore in the deepest state of the Atman, even the trace of “I” will not remain, because for the “I,” the “Thou” must be. Without “Thou,” what meaning has “I”? How will you say “I”? Whenever you say “I,” “Thou” will appear; “Thou” enters from the back door.
So do not mistake Atman to mean ego, asmita. The Atman becomes perfect only when even the feeling of “I” dissolves. No “I” remains, because it cannot—since no “Thou” remains. When no other remains, only then are you pure; so alone that you yourself are the entire sky—boundless.
Mahavira is the supreme “self-interested” one.
Every religion at its peak is self-interested; because the fundamental basis of religion is the individual, not society. This is the very difference between politics and religion. This is the difference between Marx and Mahavira. If the other is important, it is society. If I alone am important, it is the individual. Do not conclude from this that Mahavira is anti-society. Mahavira is free of society, not opposed to it. And do not conclude that Marx is a partisan of society. He is in society, but not necessarily its lover. It is a bit intricate; it may appear contradictory.
Let me repeat. Mahavira cultivates his Self-interest with such depth that in his Self-interest everyone’s interest is fulfilled; there is no need to cultivate it separately. Where Mahavira moves, rays of well-being begin to scatter. Where he resides, waves of bliss begin to spread.
One who is blissful creates waves of bliss all around him. One who is in sorrow spreads waves of sorrow. If you are miserable, you may desire a thousand times to give happiness to another—but from where will you give? From what source? If you could not gather it for yourself, how will you give it to others? The possibility of giving to others arises only when you have so much that you don’t even know what to do with it; when there is such a flood that the banks are broken and it overflows; when you are so brimming with joy that if you do not distribute it, what will you do? When the cloud is full of water, it showers. When the flower is full of fragrance, it bestows it. When the lamp is ablaze with light, it gives light. What else will it do?
One who attains to bliss becomes the foundation of a blissful society—not by effort, but effortlessly. Naturally.
Not by calculation, not by ideology. He is no “socialist.” It happens. When it rains incessantly at the inner center, floods come. When ambrosia showers, floods come. And then, when the flood comes, giving begins too.
Look closely at one who is obsessed with making others happy. You too have tried to make others happy—could you? You may have managed only to make them more miserable. The husband strives to make the wife happy—ask the wife. The wife strives to make the husband happy—ask the husband. Parents strive to make the children happy—ask the children. You will be astonished!
Politicians strive to make society happy—ask society. Don’t ask the politicians. Ask the people. Who is making whom happy? Everyone is trying to make everyone happy—and in the world nothing is seen except sorrow! All are busied in granting bliss to all; but look at what results! Your pious wish does not distribute bliss—only being can distribute it. And the journey into being is private—of the Atman.
You can give only what you become. Before you give, become. Because we can share only ourselves; there is nothing else to share. And even ourselves we can share only when we become infinite; otherwise miserliness will persist; there will be fear that if we give, we will be left depleted, made small.
Until you become so Selfed that the Atman has no shore, until you become a shoreless ocean, you will not be able to give; miserliness will continue. Remember this paradox.
Those who do not bother about others at all—because they have forgotten the very habit of worrying about others; who do not want to make others happy, nor even think of giving, because a truth has dawned upon them: that which is not within cannot be given; who are continually engaged in the sadhana of bringing forth their own bliss—because they have seen that whatever is within will grow and flow, will spread and share by itself, and there will be no bookkeeping for it—such people have all spoken of supreme Self-interest.
Religion means meaning—means Self-interest. But such a Self-interest that is so glorified that the good of others is fulfilled in it by itself.
Therefore you will see an unusual thing: in Mahavira’s religion there is no place for “service.” And if the Jains have the word “seva,” their meaning is unique. When they go for darshan of a Jain muni, they say, “We are going for seva.” This is a unique meaning of service: they go to serve one who needs no service of yours. The leper needs it, the sick need it, the miserable need it. Hence Christianity’s claim seems correct—that all religions born in the East are self-interested; in them there is no place for service. No urge to open hospitals, no urge to run schools. People sit with closed eyes, meditating—what kind of religion is this!
There is truth in what Christianity says. But basically the point is mistaken. Christianity did not become religion; it remained politics, sociology. Yes, Christians did service, but those who went to serve had nothing to give. They went to distribute, with very auspicious intentions. But they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. They went to serve, and cut throats. Christianity lifted swords. Christianity killed more than anyone. Jesus had said, “If someone slaps you, turn the other cheek.” But the obsession with service rose so high that if the other is not willing to be served, finish him—we will serve him anyway! Service became the ladder to climb to heaven. The other ceased to be the purpose.
Sometimes I fear: if a world ever comes where there is no leper, no blind—what will Christianity do then? Religion finished! No, it will not finish; they will create the blind, create the leper—service must be done, otherwise how will they reach salvation! How will they reach heaven!
In the religions of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna—there is no place for “service.” Why? Did their hearts not know love? Were they without compassion? They were. But they had realized a deep truth: you cannot give happiness to another by the effort to give happiness—you will give sorrow.
Christianity brought war, brought sorrow. Who became happy? They may have given clothes, given medicine; but they broke souls. With the lure of bread and medicine, they broke people’s life-breath, diverted their life’s direction.
Mahavira’s religion says: become complete! Kindle like a lamp! Overflow! Then in your life all that benefits others will go on happening. But that benefit is not the purpose. That benefit is not the goal. That benefit is a consequence. A spontaneous consequence. It happens by itself. When the sun rises, it does not ponder, it does not keep accounts: how many flowers must I open, how many plants must I breathe life into, how many birds must find song in their throats, how many peacocks must dance, how many eyes must be filled with light! Who keeps such accounts! Ask the sun—perhaps it does not even know that flowers bloom because of it; that sleepers awaken because of it; that birds sing; that dawn happens because of it! It may not know at all. It is a natural, effortless consequence. The sun does not “do”; it happens in the presence of the sun. The sun is catalytic. Its presence is enough.
Whenever someone attains to the Self as Mahavira did—to Self-interest meaning the Atman; the day someone delights within himself—around him many birds sing. Around him out-of-season flowers bloom. Around him eyes long asleep open. Around him those wandering for lifetimes come to the path. A mysterious string begins to be drawn.
But one like Mahavira does not “do” anything; he forgets the language of doing. He lives in the language of being. It happens; he does not do. He does not serve; service happens. It is not an act; it is his state of feeling.
So remember: for Mahavira, there is nothing beyond the Atman. Whatever lies beyond the Self misleads. Whoever tries to look outside goes into the world; whoever tries to look within enters liberation.
Mahavira says: the Atman has three states. One, bahiratman—the outward-turned, whose eyes are fixed on the other. And that “other” may be anything: wealth or office, woman or man, even “God.” Whatever it is, without condition, if the gaze is on the other, that person is bahiratman. So when you go to the temple to worship, Mahavira will call you bahiratman. Worship—and you went to a temple! Your eyes remained outside! You arranged flowers and plates; you went out to perform worship! You recited mantras; the recitation was outside! You are bahiratman! You bowed your head somewhere, placed your head at some feet—but if those feet were outside, you are bahiratman. You have yet to come in. You are in the most impoverished state of the Self. The most destitute state of the Atman—“proletariat”—is the bahiratman: the outward-going one. The more you go outward, the more the inner notes recede; the inner music fades. The more you go outward, the more your roots are uprooted from your nature; the more sorrow, the more weariness, the more fatigue, the more boredom, the more life becomes a burden, heavy.
The second state, Mahavira says, is: understand and return home—antaratman. One who has turned his back to the other and turned his gaze upon himself. As we stand now, our gaze is toward the other and our back toward ourselves. We have turned our backs to ourselves—this is the worldly state. The religious—their back is toward the world, they face themselves; now attention is on oneself. Mahavira calls this samayika. Yoga calls it dhyana. Now the return has begun. Then one day when you arrive, when you reach yourself, beyond which there is nowhere to go; you stop at the point from which you had set out, the source of life; the circle is completed—then even “antaratman” is not apt, because antaratman is he who has turned his gaze toward himself, but there is still a distance. He has turned toward home, but home is yet afar; the path lies between. When home is arrived at, then there is no distance between the seer and the seen. Being oneself and seeing oneself have become one. No two remain. One has dived. This state Mahavira calls: Paramatman.
Paramatman for Mahavira is a state—of your innermost being. For others God is outside, seated somewhere in the sky; for Mahavira, in the inner sky.
Mahavira made the most revolutionary declaration: you are Paramatman. Even when you do not know, you are. What difference does it make! Even when you are unaware, you are. The only difference is of knowing. Mahavira regarded man as the ultimate unit. No one ever sang the glory of man as he did. Always there was something above man.
Chandidasa’s famous saying is:
Sabar upar manus satya, tahar upar nai.
“Above all truths stands the truth of man; above that there is nothing.”
Chandidasa must have taken it from Mahavira; or perhaps the same surge arose within him as within Mahavira. The greatest praise could not be imagined beyond this.
Mahavira denied a separate God so that the Atman could be given the supreme place. Because if Paramatman remains separate, Atman will remain second-rate, number two. If God remains, the gaze will remain on the other. Try as you may, your eyes will not turn toward yourself.
Here the difference between the wisdom of the East and West becomes clear. Nietzsche too reached close to the argument where Mahavira stood. A hundred years ago Nietzsche almost came to that point where one sees: while God remains, man cannot be perfectly free. Someone will remain above. Some lightning gaze will always be upon you. Someone will always be inspecting you. Someone will continue to assert ownership. Right there, at the very point where Mahavira arrived, Nietzsche too arrived; but then the paths diverged. Mahavira became liberated, Nietzsche became deranged. What made the difference? Nietzsche realized that God ought not be; but he did not understand the second point. The negation is that God should not be. The second thing he missed: if there is no God, then man must become God. It is not only freedom; it is responsibility. For Nietzsche it became licentiousness. Thus he said, “God is dead. And now man is free to do whatsoever he wants to do.”
“God is dead—and now man is free to do whatever he pleases.”
This became lawlessness. The death of God did not become the rebirth of the Atman. God died on one side, but because of his death the Atman did not awaken; instead the Atman chose a path of licentiousness: “Fine—there is no master; now do what we fancy; now break all the bonds and prohibitions; now all that we were forbidden to do, we shall do.”
As when the father of a house dies, two things can happen to the son—he can go Nietzsche’s way, or Mahavira’s. The father dies—the negative is: whatever father forbade—do not go to the tavern, do not go to the courtesan—now do it. No one to stop. Another thing can happen: until now the father used to restrain, now he is gone; now I must awaken! Now whatever task the father used to do, I must do myself. So until now there was fear that if ever I disobey and slip into the tavern, now there is no way; now it is my own command; I am the one who would go. Discipline is born. Whenever the father dies, both possibilities stand before you. You choose.
Mahavira too said: there is no God. He said an even deeper thing. Nietzsche said: he has died. Mahavira said: he never was—where is the question of death? It was imagination.
But from there he took the thread in his own hands: there is no separate God, therefore now each must become Paramatman. Paramatman must be—since there is no one apart. Without Paramatman it will not do. Now the responsibility is great, profound, boundless.
Freedom became responsibility.
Hence it is not easy to find a seeker like Mahavira. Because there is no support either—no one at whose feet you may sit and weep; no one to whom to complain: “Why do you not raise me up? I am ready to rise.” No one to whom you can say: “I am helpless—now you do something. What comes of my doing? Now you take charge.” Now there is no one; now you are utterly alone—absolutely alone! In this aloneness you must raise yourself. In this aloneness you must walk. You must discover your direction.
Nietzsche became an orphan—and was deranged. Mahavira, becoming an orphan, became his own Lord—became Bhagavan.
The Jains’ word “Bhagavan” carries a different meaning than the Hindus’ “Bhagavan.” Remember: we may use the same word, but when our inner states differ, meanings change. For the Hindu, Bhagavan is the creator of the world. For the Jains, Bhagavan is one who has known himself; who, knowing, is filled with supreme glory—Bhagavan; who has become fortune-filled! On whom the showers of fortune have poured! Who has discovered his destiny. Not that he created the world, but that he became his own creator. A great difference. Therefore a Hindu will always ask: why do you call Mahavira “Bhagavan”—did he make the world? He does not understand; he brings his own assumption.
Mahavira says: the world was never “made.” There is no maker. Because the very notion of making is childish. If God made it, the question will arise—who made him? Somewhere the nonsense must be stopped. There is no juice in that journey. There is—existence is—but no creator. And yet existence is not chaotic, as Nietzsche thought. He said: without God, existence is chaos; there is no order; therefore, do what you like. This is madness—do what you like! Waste no time—indulge in desires, unrestrained!
See how two different persons take the same event differently! Mahavira said: there is no manager, therefore be careful, otherwise you will go mad! Wake up! There is no master of ceremonies here; you are alone! If you do not awaken, you will be lost, you will wander; this is adamantine darkness; these are deep abysses. There is no guide, no path-seer. No one is walking ahead—you are alone! Do not trust in false props! Take responsibility in your own hands! You are your own master!
“Appa katta vikatta ya”—you alone are the doer; you alone are the enjoyer. There is no one else doing, no one making you enjoy or suffer. No God is playing any leela—you are. This whole game is yours. If you are unhappy, you are responsible. If you want to be happy, you will have to lay the foundations of happiness. And if you wish to go beyond both happiness and unhappiness, then you will have to go yourself. There is no boat here to ferry you across. You will have to swim! Each must swim alone. No one can carry another on his shoulders.
The door Mahavira opened became the door of liberation.
The door Nietzsche opened—he himself went mad in it. The door was the same.
Beware—what I am telling you—if you do not understand rightly, you will commit a great mistake.
To relate with truth is to play with fire. If you miss even slightly—mistake one thing for another—madness will be your lot. Liberation will be far; even the little sense you had will be lost.
Abhi insanon ko manuse-zamin hona hai
Maharo mahtab ke aiwan nahin darkar abhi.
Mahavira said: become acquainted with the earth first! Become acquainted with the truth of life! Drop the dreams of moon and stars! Be acquainted with this here. Be acquainted with your fact. Drop the webs of heavens and hells!
“Now man must become the earth of man—be acquainted with the earth.
The palaces of the moon are not needed yet.”
Mahavira is very realistic—pragmatic, practical. He has the habit of placing his feet on solid ground. He cuts through dreams.
Your God too is your dream. Your God is your compensatory dream. What you cannot accomplish in life, you do under the pretext of God in your dream. What you do not get here, you ask for in heaven. But your God is your God. If you are wrong—your God will be wrong.
Think: a deranged man’s God will also be deranged! The blind man’s God will also be blind. For one who has not seen light, how can he even imagine what light is, what it is to see light, what eyes are!
The deaf man’s God will be deaf. One who has never heard sound—how can he imagine that God hears, what sound is!
Your God is your own reflection. In temples you have not made idols; you have placed mirrors. In those mirrors you look at yourself and bow to your own feet, and on your knees you converse with yourself. It is a monologue. There is no one answering. Whatever you desire, you persuade yourself; you supply yourself the answers. And thus life’s moments are wasted.
Mahavira says: take the reins into your own hands. You have wandered too long at others’ doors. You have stretched your hands for alms long enough—now be the master! Take responsibility! Drop this childishness. Step out of this childhood—be mature!
“The Atman alone is the doer of pleasure and pain.”
This brings a deep pain to the mind. That is why Mahavira did not find many disciples. Our mind may agree that we could be the makers of our joys; but sorrow—surely, others made that. Whenever you are unhappy you immediately look around for a cause: who is making me unhappy? The husband is unhappy and thinks the wife is making him unhappy. The father is unhappy and thinks the sons are making him unhappy. You always search for some excuse: who is making me unhappy? For if sorrow is coming, someone must be causing it. And you cannot accept that you are making yourself unhappy; that would be stupidity. If you do not want to be unhappy, why would you do it? Surely someone else is up to mischief. I never want to be unhappy—so why would I do it! The logic seems straight. Who wants to be unhappy! Clearly someone else is responsible.
If you cannot find a direct cause, you search for indirect ones—society, economy, politics. If even there no cause is found, then fate, destiny, God. But never you. This is the web of mind. It keeps you from seeing one truth: you yourself are the cause of your sorrow.
Someone dies—let’s take such an example—where obviously it seems the other is the cause of sorrow. The wife dies. Now it is clear, if she had not died the husband would not be miserable! So she died and made him miserable. What a time she chose! Such a time! She was so young! Just married, just after the rounds of fire! The husband weeps.
How to explain that you are the cause of your sorrow? He will say: obviously if she had not died, I would be happy. She died—therefore I am unhappy.
Mahavira says: her dying is only the occasion. You cannot accept death—that is whence your sorrow comes. In life there will be death. If there is birth, there is death. With birth, death has already happened. It is only a matter of time. With birth the process has begun—it will take a little time and the event will complete. Dying began with birth. You do not accept death at birth—your non-acceptance is where sorrow hides.
Then Mahavira will say: had this woman not been your wife, and had she died, would you be unhappy? You would say: why would I? So many women die. If I mourned for every woman, I would never get a chance to be happy; every day someone dies, and I would be weeping. Funeral biers go forth every day. How many women die every day! Where will we keep account? We would perish.
Then Mahavira says: “This woman is ‘mine’—from this ‘mine’ arises sorrow.” If she were someone else’s and died, nothing would happen to you—not a line on your face. So “my wife”—from that “mine” sorrow arises.
Then you imagine that this wife was the basis of your happiness. This too is your imagination. For the happy man needs no basis for happiness. Happiness wells up from within. And the unhappy man may find as many bases as he likes, he will not become happy. So the wife is not the basis of your happiness. She may have served as a screen for your imagination, your emotion, your desire—a screen upon which you projected your own longing; she gave you the chance to spread your desire upon her, but your happiness and sorrow surge from within you.
It is hard to accept this. Man wants someone else to be responsible. Anyone—but someone else. Let history be responsible, that will do.
In the West, in every idea that arose, someone else is responsible.
Christianity says: Satan tempted Adam and Eve—said, “Eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge.” He enticed them. Simple Adam and Eve fell for his words. Satan is responsible. But ask Satan! He has not yet said anything. Otherwise he too would assign responsibility elsewhere.
Adam says: Eve seduced me. She is a wife—who would not fall for her words! I fell. Eve says: what could I do? Satan came in the shape of a snake and enticed me. The poor snake is silent; he has no tongue. Otherwise he too would say: who enticed me? Satan enticed me. And thus the story would slip on and on. And this is no mere story—it spreads over the whole history of the West. Hegel says: history is responsible for whatever sorrow occurs. Marx says: the economy is responsible. Freud says: wrong conditioning is responsible—how the parents treated the children is responsible. Always someone else!
Western psychology has not matured enough to say: you are responsible. It takes great courage, great maturity. This childish talk—that someone else is responsible—is a way to avoid responsibility.
Mahavira, Patanjali, Buddha attained to this maturity. They said: stop this nonsense—you are responsible! And these excuses—shifting blame to others—do not bring relief; they only create deception. They make it appear: now what can we do? Others did it; what will our doing achieve? Despair is created. Slavery is created. A deep hopelessness is created: now what can be done? History cannot be changed. The economy won’t change today; by the time it changes, the changers will be dead. Those who brought revolution in Russia—they are dead; and those alive today are writhing. They are pressed under bondage. Lenin must have died thinking he had done something great. But their children today are crushed in bondage; they long for freedom. Ask Solzhenitsyn. They are in prisons.
Lenin thought a beautiful society would be created. But it did not happen. It never will, because the basic premise is wrong. Any scripture whose basis is “the other is responsible” is false.
Freud is more honest in this: he wrote in his last days that man can never be happy. Cannot be. It is impossible. Because the causes of man’s unhappiness are so many—when will they be changed, who will change them, how will they be changed? Impossible. The net is too vast; man too small.
See Freud’s despair—after a lifetime of effort, searching, he says: man can never be happy; happiness is only imagination, delusion; man will remain unhappy.
But Mahavira, Buddha, Patanjali say: man can attain supreme bliss. But first one thing must be understood—this: I am responsible. Do not dodge, do not shift. Accept the fact. Because if I am responsible for my sorrow, the reins have come into my hands; now I can cease those acts that bring sorrow; stop sowing those seeds which bear bitter fruit; burn the harvest—the nirjara of those karmas because of which I am unhappy.
“The Atman alone is the doer and undoer, the enjoyer. Established in right tendency, the Atman is its own friend.”
Mahavira says: neither your friend nor your enemy is outside you. When you are in satpravritti—what is satpravritti?—when you are awake, quiet, bliss-immersed, with an innocent meditative heart, balanced, aligned—then you are in satpravritti. Then you are your friend. In dushpravritti you yourself are your enemy. No one else is your enemy. Therefore do not fight anyone else. If you must fight—fight yourself. If you must conquer—conquer yourself. If you must change—change yourself. If you must be—be in yourself. The whole game is within you.
“Unconquered, one’s own Atman becomes one’s enemy.”
Unconquered—ajita—one’s own Atman is the enemy.
Egappa ajie sattu, kasaya indiyani ya.
Te jinittu jahanayam, viharammi aham muni.
“Unconquered, the kashayas—the passions—and the senses are enemies. O Muni! Having conquered them in right knowing, I wander in dharma.”
Mahavira says: as long as your senses are not in your control, as long as they lead you and you follow them, sorrow will be. It will be. One who walks with the support of the blind will fall in a pit. The senses have no eyes. The senses have no awareness. Your tongue says, keep eating. The tongue has no awareness—only taste. When to stop, how much to eat, when not to eat, when to go without, when the belly is full, when empty; when there is need, when there is no need—how will the tongue decide? It has no awareness. That awareness is yours. But you have tied it up and put it aside. You walk following the tongue. There will be entanglement, obstacles.
The genital organ has no awareness. If its excitations pull you into lust, you are walking holding the hand of the blind. Those who follow the blind fall into ditches.
Think! Awareness is with you. Do not walk according to the horse’s whim. Keep the reins in your hand. The horse is not bad; it is auspicious—if the reins are in your hand. But people seldom take the trouble, because the horse must then be trained.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was riding his donkey somewhere—rushing at top speed. Someone asked, “Where are you going?” He said, “Ask the donkey. I have given up the hope of leading it. Trouble arises; disgrace in the marketplace. Many times I have tried to lead it—it is a donkey. I say go left, it goes right. A crowd gathers, and in the end I have to lose. So I discovered a trick: wherever it goes, we go. At least there is no disgrace. No one can say the donkey does not obey me. Although I know it doesn’t—it goes on its own.”
The donkey has its own journey.
Many people are in the same state—most people. Wherever the senses go, you go. Who wants quarrel, who wants fuss! If you wish to take the senses where you intend to go, great discipline will be needed—great training. Inch by inch, the senses will fight. Who gives up their sovereignty easily? For lifetimes the senses have been masters. The donkey has determined your journey for lifetimes. Today suddenly you say: obey me! The donkey will say: think—what are you saying, to whom are you saying? Have you any sense? What has always happened will happen. There will be struggle. The donkey will resist. The senses will fight. But if to avoid struggle you walk according to the senses, your Atman will never be born.
Therefore I say: Mahavira’s path is of struggle, resolve, the warrior. That is why we called him Mahavira—the great warrior. Not just veera—hero—but Mahavira. It is not his name; it is what people saw in his struggle; they saw his indomitable battle, the warrior’s mood. They saw that he cared for nothing—no matter how long the battle—until victory was certain, he did not stop; he kept fighting.
And once the senses come into your mastery, a grace arises in life, a beauty—the beauty of the master, the beauty of an emperor. That is why we worshipped the fakirs and forgot the emperors. Who knows today which emperors lived in Mahavira’s time? Who knows Prasenjit? Who knows Bimbisara? If we even know their names it is because somewhere in Mahavira’s life they are mentioned. Who cares for them? Because Bimbisara came to meet Mahavira, we remember him; because Prasenjit came to bow, we remember him. Those who did not come—their names are lost. What happened? How did this naked man become so valuable, who had nothing? He must have had something that made emperors pale. He had a tremendous strength. He accepted the challenge. He did not get defeated; he proved his manhood. He declared his mastery: whatever happens, one thing remained—“I am the master.”
Awareness is the master—and all must move according to awareness. This is exact mathematics of life.
Amire-do jahan ban ja, asire-kharo-khas kab tak?
Nayi surat se tartibe-binae-ashiyan kar le.
“Become master of both worlds. How long will you remain ensnared in thorns and bushes? Build your nest anew—with a new design.”
But then you must find a new vision, a new style—to build your home. “With a new face, make the arrangement of your nest”—you must fashion your abode differently. What you have built is wrong. In it the slave has become the master; the master is the slave. In it the servants sit upon the throne and the emperor sleeps. He does not know what is happening. The emperor must be awakened.
“Emperor” means your viveka—discriminative awareness. As soon as viveka awakens, along with it comes vairagya—dispassion. When viveka sleeps, along with it comes the blindness of attachment. Do not fight attachment—awaken viveka. As viveka awakens—that is the real battle: the awakening of viveka.
Mulla Nasruddin was afraid of thieves. He moved to a new house, a new neighborhood, and bought a dog—the biggest, strongest dog he could find. He asked the shopkeeper, “Will it work?” He said, “More than work—look at him! Be careful—he’s dangerous!” But the very night he brought the dog, there was a burglary. Greatly upset, he rushed back to the seller: “What is this?” The man said: “What is there? This dog is so big, it takes a small dog to wake it. He slept—this is no small dog! Buy a small dog—he will bark and wake this one; otherwise, this one won’t even wake.”
That master within you has been snoring for lifetimes. Sadhana is nothing but small devices to awaken the sleeping master. See sadhana this way and new meanings will open.
Mahavira fasted for months. That is nothing but buying a small dog. When you fast, hunger arises; you do not listen to the body; the body says, “Hungry, hungry,” and you do not listen. Then hunger descends from the body to the mind. You still do not listen. The mind will cry, shout, plead, employ a thousand arguments; it will say you will die; if you remain hungry what will happen—this body is becoming weak—still you do not listen. Then hunger reaches the Atman. And when hunger reaches the Atman, the Atman awakens. You usually satisfy the body and the hunger never reaches the mind; how will it reach the Atman? This is to drive the arrow to the limit—where your real master sleeps.
So Mahavira would remain standing in his sadhana; he would not sit or lie down. Because the sleep is already deep—why deepen it further by sitting or lying? He would remain standing so that wakefulness remains. The body becomes tired. A moment comes, the body says, “Sit, rest!” And Mahavira says, “Stop this nonsense! Enough rest—no more.” He keeps standing, standing, until tiredness moves into the mind. The mind says, “Enough now—you will fall.” Mahavira says, “Do not listen.” Until the inner consciousness stands up, he does not listen. Slowly the tiredness reaches there—to that deep layer—and the Atman, trembling, stands up. Because the moment of dying has come.
Mahavira, in a thousand ways, brought the moment of death close—because only the moment of death can awaken you. Life could not—it lulled you into sleep.
“Perhaps there is a remedy for death; for life there is none.”
This life has put you to sleep. It has not proved a true companion; it has stupefied you. So Mahavira used death—to awaken. Hungry, thirsty—he remained standing.
In one village he stood—outside the village—silent. A cowherd came and said, “Look after my cows for a bit; I’ll be back.” Mahavira said nothing—he spoke not—and the man was in a hurry; he didn’t care. He took silence as consent. The Fakir is standing—he will watch. When he returned, the cows had dispersed into the forest. He was angry. He shouted, “What happened to my cows? You were standing here—what were you doing? You could have held them; what would it have cost you?” But he saw: this man is just standing; he does not speak; he does not even blink. As if he did not hear. He said, “Are you deaf?” Still nothing. Thinking him deaf or mad, he rushed off—it would be futile to waste time. He wandered the forest searching, and by evening the cows returned and sat around Mahavira. “Ah!” he said, “how cunning! He had hidden them—now he is preparing to flee. He must have waited for sunset—to run in the dark. He is pretending to stand.” Enraged, he said, “I will make you truly deaf!” He drove two wooden pegs into both ears. Mahavira remained standing. He said nothing.
The story is beautiful. Such poetry does not happen now—people have forgotten the language of poetry; they have learned the dirty arithmetic of calculation.
The story is significant. Indra became frightened. The gods trembled. Because such a divine man is rare. They came rushing: “Give us the command. You are unsafe. Someone will kill you. We shall stay with you, we shall guard you. This should not happen again.”
Mahavira did not speak—but this is an inner matter; outwardly nothing was said; nothing was heard. Within he said: what has happened is right. See how much awakening it gave me! You see only that pegs were driven into my ears. These ears would have gone anyway—today or tomorrow, on the funeral pyre. What does it matter? Dust returns to dust. See the awakening he granted me! When he was hammering the pegs, the body made all effort—“Speak! Stop him!”—but I kept my restraint. I said, “Why speak? Why stop? That which will perish is perishing. What is going to burn tomorrow is burning today. Who has saved it? As the pegs were hammered into the ears, within someone awakened. I became separate from the body. His compassion is great. He has helped me. Help him—to thank him—because he awakened me in a way I could not awaken myself.”
Mahavira has the fierce form of a warrior. Struggle is his formula.
“Unconquered, one’s own Atman is an enemy. Unconquered, passions and senses are enemies. O Muni, having conquered them, I wander in rightness.”
This utterance is most precious.
Egappa ajie sattu, kasaya indiyani ya.
Te jinittu jahanayam, viharammi aham muni.
“Having conquered them, I act according to that supreme dharma.”
Here a great mistake occurs—by translators or even by the ignorant reading of the original. “Yathanyaya”—I wander according to dharma; followers thought: by acting according to dharma, by right conduct, one becomes conqueror. But Mahavira says the opposite: “O Muni! Having conquered them…” Conquest comes first. Awakening comes first. “…then I act according to dharma.” Awake, then conduct flows according to dharma. Dharma means svabhava—your intrinsic nature; viveka awake and established; your inner flame lit; your lamp not extinguished but aflame; your life radiant—then naturally conduct is dharmic. Then whatever you do is ethics. Then whatever you do is justice. Then whatever you do is auspicious.
Remember, the auspicious cannot be cultivated. With awakening, the flowers of the auspicious bloom.
In a train a man asked a railway employee, “May I smoke here?” The employee said, “Certainly not. Smoking here is strictly forbidden.” The man asked, “Then whose cigarette stubs are these?” The employee said, “They belong to those who do not ask permission.”
In life I often see people come and say, “We are honest, yet there is no joy; and the dishonest flourish.” These are also dishonest; but they asked permission and got trapped. They wanted to smoke too, but got entangled in asking. When they were told “no,” they lacked courage to do. They heard the commands of scriptures, the voices of shastra; they heard the words of saints, of the Master. They asked. Now if they break, guilt arises within; if they do not, pain arises. And they see—others go on smoking. The others didn’t bother to ask.
If you live a religious life, this question will never arise in your mind—that the irreligious are enjoying and I am in misery. If it arises, it means your religiosity is false, stale, borrowed, leftover. You have clutched at rules, not at awareness; otherwise it is impossible that a religious man is not in joy. I am not saying a religious man will get palaces. He may, he may not. I am not saying a religious man will become president or prime minister. I am not saying there will be showers of gold and silver around him. But I say: even if he has nothing, he will be more blissful than those upon whom gold and silver rain; he will be more honored than those in high positions. He will have more than those who have everything—even if he has nothing. That “having” is inner.
If you are honest, honesty itself is bliss. The taste of being honest is such that who cares if something else comes or not. It is the dishonest who worry for something else. Here even the dishonest think themselves honest. Have you ever seen anyone say: “I am dishonest”? No one says so.
In court the magistrate asked a thief, “You entered this shop five times in the night— all night long?” He said, “What to do, sir! I can’t find honest companions these days—times are so bad!”
A clatter woke Mulla Nasruddin at night. He went down the stairs and found a thief filling a sack with kitchen things. Closing the door, he shouted from behind, “Put down the whole sack—otherwise it will not be good for you!” As he dropped a tea-strainer into the sack, the thief said, “Don’t be so dishonest, sir! Half of this stuff belongs to your neighbor.”
Even thieves: “Don’t be so dishonest!” Here the dishonest think themselves honest. The touchstone is this: if your honesty does not bring joy—when I say “bring joy,” I mean: when your honesty itself does not become joy. In language I must place the words one after another—because we cannot utter all words at once—but in life honesty and joy happen together. In speech I say: honesty brings joy—because language must line up like train cars, one behind another. Life is simultaneous.
Here I speak, birds sing; you listen; the winds roam through the trees—this all happens together. But language requires sequence; otherwise there is confusion. So we say, honesty brings joy. That is only a way of saying. Honesty is joy. Even here I am forced to put “joy” after it. Joy is not even that far behind honesty. Joy is in honesty itself.
The joy of honesty is not outside it. The joy of dishonesty is outside it. Understand this. No one is dishonest for dishonesty’s sake; he does it to gain something else. Dishonesty is not the goal; it is means. A man does not steal to be a thief; he does not murder to be a murderer—there is another ambition. The dishonest man’s ambition lies outside dishonesty.
Therefore I tell you: if in your sadhana the joy of your life is not included, you are dishonest, irreligious. If you ask, “What will I get from meditation?” you are dishonest, irreligious. If you ask, “What will I get from love?” you are a shopkeeper, dishonest.
Love is the “getting”—what before and after? Love is sufficient; nothing else is needed.
So when Mahavira says, “O Muni! Having conquered them…” over the senses viveka has dawned. Upon the dark night of the senses the sun of viveka has arisen; sunset is over; sunrise has happened.
“Having conquered them, I act according to dharma.” Do not think Mahavira calculates before he acts. We think so—and then the whole religion is turned upside down. A blind man gropes for the door to go out; the seeing man simply walks out—he does not think! He does not even think where the door is. If there are eyes, the door is seen. Who thinks! He does not even ask, “Where is the door?” He goes out. He does not grope.
Te jinittu jahanayam, viharammi aham muni—having conquered, I abide, I wander—in supreme joy! O Muni! Having conquered the senses, now it is joy upon joy—vihar! Now it is delight upon delight.
Mauje-sahba nigah thi apni,
Raqse-masti kalam tha apna.
In the Sufi tongue: “The waves of wine are our eyes; the dance of ecstasy our song, our speech.”
Wherever viveka awakens, ecstasy awakens. Where viveka awakens, bliss awakens. Bliss and ecstasy are attendants of awareness. With dhyana, ecstasy comes as your shadow. Ecstasy is secondary—like a shadow. You come and so does your shadow. I do not send a separate invitation to your shadow; it arrives by itself. That which arrives by itself because you have come is your shadow. Ecstasy is the shadow.
“From one side there must be renunciation, and from the other side there must be engagement. Renounce the unrestrained and engage in restraint.” Many have taken the shadow to be religion. They try to bring the shadow and forget the original. Someone is fasting and has forgotten that fasting is shadow and viveka is the root. If viveka is cultivated, fasting will happen. It happens. As viveka is honed, there comes a moment when the body is forgotten. Imagine what happens when there is a great bliss within—words fail. The body is forgotten—no hunger, no thirst—you are so absorbed, so still—time stops; space is forgotten.
Mayane-qalb-o-nazar ek maqam hai uska,
Maqam? marhala? jo bhi kuchh hai naam uska,
Jamale tabish-e-ru garamiy-e-khiram nahin,
Hazar aisi adaen hain jinka naam nahin.
“There is a station between heart and gaze—that is meditation. Call it station or stage—whatever name you like. But there is no way to express it. There are a thousand graces for which there is no name.”
There are a thousand graces in life for which there are no words, no names, no expression is possible. Only hints, only gestures, only indications.
So Mahavira says: “From one side renunciation; from the other engagement.” A unique formula. Some say: engage, only engage—Charvaka says: engage in the world; do not be caught in the nonsense of renunciation. Death will come and all will be lost. Enjoy today whatever is. Do not leave anything, for what is left is wasted time. Charvaka even said: take ghee on loan and drink. Rinang kritva—borrow and enjoy; who cares to repay? Who remains to repay? Death finishes all; no debtor, no creditor—accounts are over. All bookkeeping belongs to this world. No one returns; therefore no merit, no sin. They say: engagement.
On the other side, their opposites: they say renounce! Do not enjoy—you will be trapped, you will go to hell. Leave, because there is value in renunciation in the eyes of God. They are enemies of engagement. So there are bhogis and there are tyagis.
Now the amusing thing: if Jain monks today were understood properly, they would not prove to be followers of Mahavira. They are enemies of Charvaka, true; but they are not with Mahavira either. They say: leave, leave—only leaving. One says: enjoy, enjoy—only enjoyment.
Mahavira is supremely balanced. He says: “From one side renunciation, from the other engagement.” Renounce the unrestrained and engage in restraint. He says: enjoy—enjoy restraint! Leave—leave un-restraint! Enjoy light—leave darkness. Enjoy the Atman—leave the body. Enjoy viveka, vairagya, bodha, Buddhahood! Renounce stupor, wrong vision, asamyaktva. Leave!
But remember: Mahavira says renunciation and engagement are like two wings. With one wing the bird cannot fly.
The bhogi falls; the tyagi falls. Enjoy in such a way that renunciation remains. Renounce in such a way that joy remains. This is the supreme art of life.
Egago virai kunja, egago ya pavattanam.
Asanjame niyattim cha, sanjame ya pavattanam.
“Of the two, one is renunciation, the other is engagement: from un-restraint, renunciation; in restraint, engagement.”
In life, nothing you have is to be thrown away. Everything is to be used. If there is a stone—make a step. If a stone is rough—pick up the chisel, carve a statue.
Therefore I say: turn lust into brahmacharya. Turn anger into compassion. Do not cut off. There is no need to amputate; for whatever you cut off, you will never be whole. That portion you cut away will remain a hole in your being. You will not become a complete man.
Do not leave anything. Use everything. The wise is one who fits together all the tools given by life. Right now all is scattered. There are strings, there is a veena—broken and scattered. Join rightly. From the same strings and the same veena, grand music can arise. Nothing is to be discarded. You are to be rearranged. Things are in the wrong places; where they should be, they are not. But nothing is to be thrown away—because whatever is, is not without reason. It has a cause. If you do not understand, do not be hasty. The language of breaking is wrong. The language of harmonizing, of sadhana, is right.
“The two feelings that set in motion sinful action are raga and dvesha—attachment and aversion. The bhikshu who continually negates them does not remain in the wheel—he becomes free.”
The world will not stop. The world will go on. The world is a wheel. Mahavira calls it a mandala. It will go on revolving. The potter’s wheel keeps spinning. As long as those full of desires sit in the cart, it will go on. Do not try to stop it. If you wish, you may step down from the cart. No one stops you.
Most people try to change the world. They come to me and say: there is so much suffering—why don’t you do something? The world is in sorrow. People desire sorrow. What can I do? And if they desire sorrow, perhaps that is their happiness. Who am I to interfere in their happiness? Those who are sitting in the cart, those who keep the wheel spinning—they want it so. They cannot be forcibly relieved of their sorrow. Yes, those who understand may step down.
Rukta nahin kisi ke liye karwane-waqt,
Manzil hai justaju ki—na koi maqam hai.
“Time’s caravan stops for no one. The destination is seeking itself—there is no final station.” This world has no destination, no station. Time’s caravan stops for no one. But you can step down. You can stop. It does not stop you. Let this settle deep in your heart: you remain in the world only as long as you want to remain. Not for a single instant can the world stop you. If you are ready to get down, no one can stop you. And if you think someone else stops you, you deceive yourself.
A story from Mahavira’s time: a youth heard Mahavira and returned home. He was newly married. He sat to bathe. An old story—now such things do not happen. His wife applied ubtan to his body. Now which wife does that! People barely save their bodies before they escape the house. She was applying the paste, bathing him. He sat on a stool in the bathhouse; the wife was rubbing ubtan and she said, “Listen—my brother has been going to hear Mahavira for years, and he is thinking of taking sannyas.” The young man laughed. “Thinking? What has thinking to do with sannyas? If you have to take it—take it; if not—then not. What is there to think? If not—be clear you won’t. If yes—take. Who stops you?” The wife said, “Do you think sannyas is so easy? One must think, reflect. You too had gone to listen—can you take sannyas instantly?” The young man stood up. The wife said, “Where are you going? It was only talk.” But he opened the door and stepped out. “You are naked—where are you going?” “The matter is finished. If it is to be taken—it is taken.” “Come inside—this was a joke.” He said, “Even if in a joke sannyas is taken—done is done.” He reached Mahavira naked. The whole village gathered. He said to Mahavira: thus and thus it happened. In that instant I saw—what am I saying? I speak thus about another: do not think—and I too was thinking. In that instant I realized: if it is to be taken, let me take it. Who stops me? Who can stop me?
If at the moment of death no one can stop you, how can anyone stop you at the moment of sannyas? He who wants to get down—gets down. But we are very dishonest. We make a thousand excuses. Our dishonesty is such that we cannot even admit we do not want sannyas, we do not want vairagya. We even pretend that we want, but—what to do!—there are many ifs and buts.
“The two feelings that set in motion sinful action are raga and dvesha. The monk who continually negates them does not remain in the mandala—becomes free.”
Rage dose ya do pave, pavakamma pavattane.
Je bhikkhu rumbhai niccam, se na achchai mandale.
Just two things—raga and dvesha—by whose support the wheel turns. Raga: something is mine. Raga: someone is my own. Raga: from someone I get pleasure—let me protect it, save it, secure it. Dvesha: someone is other. Dvesha: someone is enemy. Dvesha: because of someone I get sorrow—destroy him, erase him. A gaze turned outward turns everything into attachment or aversion.
Have you noticed? As you walk the road you look at some with raga, at others with dvesha. Someone seems one’s own, dear; another seems other, hostile. Someone is not mine today—perhaps tomorrow he may be—ambition arises. Someone is far—may he come near, embrace. And someone stands near—and one feels: let him go far; repulsion arises. You divide the whole world into raga and dvesha, knowingly or unknowingly. Watch with awareness: moment to moment, a stranger appears on the road and instantly you decide within—raga or dvesha; friend or foe; worthy of desire or not; dear or hostile; good—worth coming near, or better kept far. One glimpse and—whether you know it or not—you have decided—subtle raga or dvesha. This very decision binds you to the world.
A car passes—one glance; you decide: such a car must be bought or not. Are you lured or not? A woman passes. A big house appears. Fine clothes hang in a shop window. Raga-dvesha the whole time—you go on deciding.
This continuous process of raga-dvesha keeps the wheel turning.
You remain trapped in the mandala. Then what is the remedy?
There is a third formula. Buddha called it upekkha—equanimity—the word is perfect. Mahavira called it viveka—also perfect. He says: neither raga nor dvesha—indifference, equanimity. No one is mine, no one is other. No one is one’s own, no one is the second. No one gives happiness; no one gives sorrow. Try this—just for twenty-four hours—there will be no harm. For twenty-four hours keep one current within: whatever comes before you, you will maintain equanimity—neither this side nor that, neither for nor against—neither enemy nor friend. You will not divide; you will keep looking with empty eyes. In twenty-four hours you will find a unique peace. The constant action that keeps the wheel moving—if that stops for even twenty-four hours, the wheel halts.
Like cycling: you keep pedaling; two pedals—each opposite the other—yet not really opposite; they cooperate. When one is up, the other is down; one is on the left, one on the right—seeming enemies, yet in deep union—and because of both, the wheel moves, the cycle goes. If you stop pedaling, the cycle may move for a few steps by old momentum; but not forever. As soon as you stop, the momentum weakens; the cycle begins to wobble; after a few steps, you must get off—or the cycle will throw you off.
Raga and dvesha are like pedals. They seem opposite—but they are your cooperative effort by which you keep the wheel moving. Cultivate equanimity. Upekkha means: stop pedaling—sit on the cycle, no harm—but how long will you sit? That is why I tell my sannyasins: no need to run away; sit where you are. Sit on the bicycle. Live at home. Work in the shop. Let a little meditation be established—the cycle will itself drop you; you will not have to leave—it will leave you. The cycle will say, “Enough—now get off!”
Let equanimity be established a little—viveka a little—dhyana a little—non-stupor a little—and revolution begins to happen by itself. Twenty-four hours may feel too hard—perhaps you will fear: what if I fall from the cycle and break my limbs? What if I cannot mount it again? Then try one hour a day—one hour of perfect equanimity. Even that one hour will grant you the vision of life. If for even a moment raga-dvesha’s clouds do not cover your eyes, life’s truth begins to be seen. Then there is no friend, no enemy. Then you are your own friend; you are your own enemy. In satpravritti—friend; in dushpravritti—enemy.
Khudi kya hai raje-darun-e-hayat—
Samandar hai ek boond pani mein band.
“What is the Self? The royal secret of life—an ocean contained in a drop of water.” Within you the ocean is contained.
But the gaze does not turn within; thus the ocean is not seen. Needlessly you make yourself small; needlessly you think yourself petty; without cause you sit convinced you are inferior. Convinced thus, you try to become superior. Let the eye turn within—a little equanimity, a little steadiness of vision, that your flame does not flicker here and there, that the gusts of raga-dvesha do not come—and you will suddenly find: the ocean is contained in a drop of water. Then you become vast—immense. This is your Paramatman-state.
Kiran chand mein hai, sharar sang mein—
Yeh berang hai doob kar rang mein.
Khud hi ka nasheman tere dil mein hai—
Falak jis tarah aankh ke til mein hai.
“As the entire sky is contained in the tiny pupil of the eye—so is the abode of the Self in your own heart.” You seem small—the pupil so small—yet the vast sky enters it.
The day your inner explosion happens, you will know that you always carried the Infinite, the Formless, the Qualityless within you.
“An ocean contained in a drop of water!”
But this discovery will not be through mere rules, manners, discipline, ethics. With these you will become a good man—civilized. “Civilized” is a good word—it means: worthy to sit in the assembly. Nothing more. Where people sit together, you may sit without being thrown out. You will learn etiquette. But in the realm of Paramatman that is not enough. Being fit for the assembly does not make you fit to sit in yourself. What makes you fit for the assembly is civility; what makes you fit for your own Self is culture.
Shaikh! maktab ke tariqon se kushade-dil kahan?
Kis tarah kibrit se roshan ho bijli ka chiragh!
“O shaikh! By the school’s methods where is the opening of the heart? How can a lightning lamp be lit with sulfur and match?” Oil lights a clay lamp; even sulfur-lamps can be made; but the lamp of electricity—what has it to do with oil and sulfur?
By the school’s methods—rules of decorum—if one takes them as religion, it is like trying to light a bulb with oil. Futile.
As soon as you stir a little understanding, you will find: the light within you needs no oil, no sulfur; it is not dependent on fuel. The light within you is your nature.
Appa katta vikatta ya, duhana ya suhana ya.
Appa mittamamittam cha, duppatthiya suppatthio.
“The Atman alone is the doer and undoer of pleasure and pain; established in right tendency it is its own friend, established in wrong tendency its own enemy.”
Let this truth be absorbed into your heart. Carry it within. Witness it. Search it in your life—is it not so? If it begins to be seen by you—not because I say so; not because Mahavira said it; but because you see it—then you will set out on the journey of becoming a Jina. Never desire to be a “Jain.” If you must be—be a Jina. If you must be—be a Mahavira. What will imitation do? Not imitation—Self-inquiry. Do not deceive yourself by becoming “a Jain.” Becoming a Jain means: you learned the school’s manners; the law of the Self did not blossom; the Self did not move in its law. You learned the outer arrangements—how to sit, how to stand, how to go to the temple, how to worship, rituals; you learned all that and became a Jain, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. But you evaded what was to be.
And false coins are dangerous. Their weight and their clink can deceive you and make it seem you have real coins. The real coin is of Jinhood. Be a Jina if you must be anything. Do not settle for less. Do not sell yourself cheap. Only the Paramatman can be bought with this life—do not long for less.
It can be—because it has been. It can be—because it has happened in human beings like you. You are the owner; it is your nature-given right.
Enough for today.